


Echoplex

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Captain kink, Creampie, Established Relationship, F/M, Jealousy, Light Bondage, Locker Room, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: Hyūga tries to pretend that he doesn't care what people think because, in actuality, he refuses to waste two fucks on what people theorize about him. You, on the other hand, are an entirely different story, worlds apart, on a separate plane from which he stands. When it comes to you, Hyūga cares a lot, about everything. You might even dare say that in the past several months, he's grown increasingly neurotic and obsessive, a trait that seems to ignite the jealous seat of the affections that light up his heartstrings.
Relationships: Hyuuga Junpei/Reader
Kudos: 20





	Echoplex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DirtyMers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirtyMers/gifts).



Hyūga tends to be a collected individual most of the time but that's not to say that the rumored personality shift he undergoes when in clutch time is without evidence. In fact, those closest to him know well enough when his calm exterior is breaking down into jagged pieces of brash impertinence. Those who have played against him on the court can still recount the sound of the bones shifting in his neck and the frost that rimed his steely gaze when pushed a little too close to a challenge.

Despite this, Hyūga is terribly unconscious of how he's perceived—amalgamate that with the complete inability to verbally screen his discourse when he's worked up about something, well, it spells disaster. And that was _before_ you joined Seirin as manager and started dating him. These days, Hyūga's jagged pieces have matured into wiry barbs that stick in your skin like the fangs of a snake, and his lack of a verbal filter has gone entirely to shit. If he had bite before, he was sinking his teeth down to the bone now.

Hyūga tries to pretend that he doesn't care what people think because, in actuality, he refuses to waste two fucks on what people theorize about him. You, on the other hand, are an entirely different story, worlds apart, on a separate plane from which he stands. When it comes to you, Hyūga cares _a lot_ , about everything. You might even dare say that in the past several months, he's grown increasingly neurotic and obsessive, a trait that seems to ignite the jealous seat of the affections that light up his heartstrings.

This is likely the reason for the vulnerability of your current state, half-dressed and forced against the chill of metal lockers, Hyūga's belt assuming the shape of a figure-eight around your wrists. Hyūga has his hand pressed against the crown of your head, fingers brushing the line of your scalp in intermittent intervals. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear, coming in erratic gusts that fall in time with the two digits thrusting in and out of your cunt like an uncultivated, ill-bred sybarite who seeks only the finest avocations in life. This in itself is exemplary of the way Hyūga treats you—as if you're a piece of fine art or a rare jewel meant to be treasured and hidden away for safekeeping, a liturgical ablution to lie and luxuriate in like a pool of crushed gemstones.

Of course, all of this wouldn't be complete without the insidious nuances of Hyūga's character: the kaleidoscopic range of secret artistic passion and deep personal insecurity. Alongside the subtle shift from inattention to unshakable circumspection that Hyūga has a habit of exhibiting at the best—and the worst—of times, it's a deadly concoction. It leaves you weak in the knees and hot between your thighs. It's almost as if he'd slipped venom into your veins when he licked past the sugar-sweet of your lips to leave the taste of his kiss in the shape of teeth on the bottom line of your mouth.

Hyūga is highly driven in his quest to prove just who you belong to through a physical display of pleasure and pain. His words are weapons, sharper than knives, his touch like a match burning bright and held against your skin. Every action speaks of something greater, some quintessential motive that ultimately spells ownership and possession through the exotic language of _marking_. It's animalistic, carnal, and undomesticated; a ferocious aggressiveness swimming beneath the glistening waters of a fairy tale meant to put you to bed. Hyūga is the embodiment of a wolf in sheep's clothing, on a mission to get under your skin and metaphorically tear you limb from limb—and perhaps you should be concerned because chewing someone down in the name of love is a bit extreme, but you can't help but be drawn to the sharp points of his teeth or the danger that's red behind his eyes.

And he sees just that; what you're drawn to. Which only aids in Hyūga forgetting about being careful and affable when he braces his hands against your hips hard enough to bruise, as if to promise that his touch will remain long after he's gone. He's worked up, bitten by the green-eyed monster and brimming with voyeuristic intention. So when you involuntarily grind back against his cock, already wet with want and hard enough to draw a moan up the back of your throat, the effect is instant. Hyūga doesn't even give you a chance to inhale your next breath before he's pushing himself between your thighs and fucking into your begging heat.

Hyūga slides his mouth down the visible line of your throat, trailing wet kisses as he goes, then nips lightly over your pulse point. The bite isn't centered enough to leave a mark but you know that this is only the beginning. Hyūga likes to pace himself, likes to chase the flush that creeps down your throat, his lips parted and slick, the cool edges of his teeth scraping against your skin in a veiled threat.

Hyūga fucks you in the same way a rainstorm promises flooding on low-lying land nearest rivers. He fucks you like it's a skin game, the sort of bait-and-switch that has you attempting to climb out of the watery grave he's dropped you in. It's playful deception at its finest, something more becoming to a person like Hanamiya, perhaps. But Hyūga has learned a thing or two over the years, and he no longer has to ask if you're okay because he _knows,_ now—knows that his cold touch only spreads to heat on your skin.

He also knows, through the veins of artful perception, what the dirty things he whispers into your ear do to you. It helps, of course, that he can feel you in the most intimate way one can once familiar with their partner, wrapped around his thick cock like a glove and wetter than the first onset of spring.

His short, groomed nails catch on your skin in the shape of crescent moons. It should hurt, should sting at the very least, but it grounds you. Even in the hour of the wolf, when he fucks you in the splintered cast of moonlight, the pain soothes you the way aloe soothes a fresh burn. There's something about the ache that assuages your heavy heart and comforts your panic, drives out the hostile black that molds your mind like an infectious plague.

In what seems like a pitiful amount of time, you're dancing around the edge of the precipice that lays claim to your capitulation. Hyūga's breathing is labored, though not due to effort; the slide has become shamefully easy, friction no longer an impediment but a blessing. You can hear the drip-drop of a leaky shower faucet but you'd be hard-pressed to lay the blame on the tranquil splash because the sounds emanating between your bodies are unmistakable. This is far from the first time you've had sex with Hyūga, but you have yet to get through a session without flushing when the profane noises play like a salacious chorus in your ears.

You have a few tricks up your sleeve, however, and Hyūga knows it's only a matter of time before you pull out the Queen of Hearts. Hence the reason he returns one hand to the back of your head, the other still bracing hard against your hip. He presses your cheek against the locker, _his_ locker, naturally, in an unspoken gesture of warning. Heat courses through him, takes his breath away in a sweet dizzying rush. He thrusts forward, canting his hips hard and fast; and it's almost impossible to get much leverage in this position, but he's making it work.

Hyūga has just managed to fumble a hand between your bodies to press his fingers against your clit, which is aching for stimulation and slick with desire, when you can hear two distinct voices just outside the locker room. Your breath catches in your throat and goosebumps erupt over the fine sheen of sweat that's catching reflective on your skin. You expect Hyūga to discontinue his ministrations but his pace prevails without a hitch, and you wonder if he's so lost to the blissful electrical moments that only spontaneity and sexual contextualization provide that he doesn't notice.

“Hyūga,” you gasp, shivering.

Hyūga grinds his hips forward and his fingers down in an amalgamation of unbridled eroticism. “I hear them,” he says, his voice harsh and slightly breathless. “Sounds like your favorite first years. What do you think they'll do if they find you like this, spread open on my cock and mewling like a kitten thirsty for milk—do you think they'll still view you in the same light?”

“Captain, _please_ —”

“I don't think so,” Hyūga breathes, pulling out of your cunt to bodily spin you around. You moan at the loss, though it's brief because Hyūga is already sheathing his cock in the dripping walls of your sex. You shiver when your back presses against the cold resistance behind you, unused to the change in temperature but not wholly ungrateful for it. Your bound hands are trapped between your bodies, and when Hyūga hooks an arm beneath your knee to lift your leg, forcing you into a pornographic stance, you're thrown into precarious balance.

You're left entirely in the coarse hands of Hyūga's control.

The voices are heart-stoppingly close but the new angle of Hyūga's thrusts are reaching places that unfailingly string you into sound. You want nothing more than to clamp your hand over your mouth but it's almost as if Hyūga had the foresight to plan for this moment. It makes you wonder if the sudden return of first years was also premeditated but before the thought can truly take shape, Hyūga thrusts two fingers into your mouth.

You can hear the scuffle of sneakers against tile and the clink of a locker coming open. The voices unmistakably belong to Kuroko and Kagami, and you can see the white edge of a T-shirt sleeve come into view around the corner of the lockers when Kagami presses his back to the line of metal compartments. You try to hold your breath, which is surprisingly hard to do when you have two long fingers creeping toward the back of your throat.

Finally, Kuroko closes his locker with a resounding clang. He says something you don't quite catch, and Kagami pushes away from the sturdy structure to follow the echo of Kuroko's light footsteps out of the room.

When their voices have faded to a low thrum, Hyūga withdraws his salt-warm digits from your mouth and returns them to the thrumming pulse of your clit.

“You're an asshole,” you hiss, body straining from the by-product of too much fear-born tension and adrenaline.

Hyūga flashes you a crooked smile and you think you can see shadows and firelight held in his gaze when he begins manipulating your clit, fast and firm. You swear in a broken tone and whimper as the pleasure begins to override your ability to think about anything but the desirable conclusion that's now within your sights.

“Tell me what you want,” Hyūga orders, a shudder commanding the shift of his body.

“Please, Captain. Please let me come, I need it.”

“I know what you need, baby,” Hyūga rasps, aiming for admonishment but losing some of its asperity for what the title does to him. He must hear the ragged edge of his tone because he drags you into a hard kiss as he starts to come in hot pulses, spilling deep into your body and painting your inner walls with slick emission. Hyūga licks into your mouth and swallows the noise that you make when you trip on his example and follow him over the scarp with nothing to break your fall but trust.

For a long moment, there's only the sound of your combined breathing against the backdrop of the room. You press your forehead against Hyūga's shoulder and try to force your breaths back into some frame of normalcy. Hyūga lowers your leg back down to the floor and begins working on the belt that's lightly chafing your wrists. He seems miles ahead of where you're standing, already through the haze of the aftermath and back on the grounds of composure, but then you hear the hitch in his own breathing, see the tremble of his fingers as he tries to bend the leather to his will.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, finally removing the strip of leather from your wrists. He lets it fall to the floor in favor of massaging your complex joints. The metal buckle hits the tile with an audible clank which seems to trigger the ability to perceive the other sounds in the room. You shake your head slightly as if to clear the static buzzing in your ears and make an effort to meet Hyūga's gaze.

“Physically, I feel great. Mentally, I can't decide whether I want to kiss you or punch you.”

Hyūga laughs at that and lifts your hands, now bound by calloused fingertips, to his lips. “Yeah, okay, fine,” he says, still smiling. “I guess I deserved that.” He kisses your fingers in turn, then fits his lips to the shape of your own in what resembles an unspoken understanding. The kind of comprehension that represents the dependability and accountability of a worthy captain.

The kind of deep understanding that belongs to an exceptional lover who thrives on ownership, and you are more than a willing possession.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! ♥


End file.
